Simple’s discourse on the cow-men’s feud with the rangers, rustlers, nesters and barbed wire. But despite this apparent interest, she displayed evidences of impatience.

“It’s nearly nine o’clock,” she announced, almost petulantly. “I wonder if—”

“I shouldn’t wonder, ma’am,” Simple interrupted, grinning, “if that’s him comin’ naow.”

A dashing figure on a white-stockinged chestnut had rounded the corner of the bunkhouse, and was approaching the corral at a trot. With almost a single motion he halted before them, leaped from the saddle and stood, hat in hand and bridle looped over his arm, smiling and bowing slightly before Mariel. She returned the smile.

“This is indeed a surprise, Mr. Bledsoe,” she told him brightly, smoothing a fold in her riding habit. Simple chuckled.

“Just thought I’d drop over to see if the Footstool’s got any line on those rustlers,” Bledsoe began pleasantly. “Didn’t think I’d be so fortunate as to find you, Miss Lancaster.” Then, turning to Simple: “H’lo, Simp. Where’s Otis?”

“Howdy, Jess,” the cow-hand responded. “Reckon Otis is out some’ers down Gros Ventre way.”

“Wonder if he’s heard about the trouble up at the ranger cabin?” Bledsoe asked. “Some of the boys says the Sheriff got a hurry-up call from the Red Rock station.”

 CHAPTER III 

CHAPTER III

Otis Carr, bending over the kneeling officer in the ranger cabin, seemed fairly stupefied with astonishment as Lafe Ogden read the words which branded him as the murderer of Ranger Fyffe. Even when the Sheriff turned and looked up at him, condemnation in his keen gaze and his hand instinctively seeking his gun, Otis stood petrified, oblivious of everything but the scrawled and blurred inscription on the floor. He still bent forward, eyes staring, pale beneath his tan, his mouth agape.

Deputy Seth Markey whipped his revolver from its holster. He did not train it upon Otis, but stood with arms crossed, eying him narrowly, alert for the slightest hostile move. Sheriff Ogden rose slowly to his feet, his gaze intent upon the younger man.

Through Otis’ mind flashed a picture of Joe Fyffe, wounded, rushing into the ranger cabin, staggering toward the table, clutching at the telephone, frantically calling for help, and then slowly sinking to the floor, where he lay 

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